“Not that I know of.”
“Do you have evidence connecting your neighbor to this?”
I looked toward Denise’s house.
“No. That’s the problem.”
He nodded in the sympathetic way people do when they already know they cannot help much.
I felt ridiculous.
Someone had stood in my driveway long enough to cover an entire car in paint, and I couldn’t prove who had done it.
Later that afternoon, I saw Denise near the fence.
I almost kept walking.
Instead, I stopped.
“Someone painted my car last night.”
Her eyes widened.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“The whole thing?”
“The whole thing.”
Denise, of course, acted completely shocked and sympathetic when I mentioned it to her over the fence, which somehow made it worse.
“That’s horrible,” she said.
Her voice sounded almost concerned.
Almost.
“I called the police.”
“Good. You absolutely should.”
I watched her face.
Nothing.
No nervousness.
No slip.
No sign that I could use.
“Hopefully they figure out who did it,” she added.
“Hopefully.”
She smiled before going inside.
For the next several days, every time I looked at that ruined car, I felt the same combination of anger and helplessness.
I finally ordered security cameras.
Too late, obviously.
Still, I wasn’t letting anyone walk onto my property unseen again.
Yesterday morning, I was still nursing my coffee when I heard frantic pounding on my front door.
Not knocking.
Pounding.
I nearly spilled coffee down my shirt.
I set the mug on the counter and walked toward the entryway.
The pounding came again.
“Christine!”
I recognized Denise’s voice.
I opened it to find Denise standing there, hair a mess, still in her bathrobe, practically shaking with rage.
Her face was red.
One slipper was half off her heel.
For once, there was no smug little smile.
“Did you do this?!” she screamed, jabbing a finger toward her own driveway. “I will destroy you!”
I stared at her.
“Do what?”
“You know exactly what!”
“I really don’t.”
She pointed again.
Her hand was trembling.
“Look!”
I stepped past her onto the porch to see what she was pointing at, and I nearly burst out laughing right there in my slippers.
The reason I almost laughed was sitting in the middle of Denise’s driveway.
Her car was completely covered in white paint.
Not splashed.
Not streaked.
Covered.
The hood, roof, doors, windows, mirrors, and headlights were all coated in thick white paint.
Whoever had done it had been just as thorough as the person who ruined my car.
For a second, I simply stood there.
Then I covered my mouth.
Denise spun toward me.
“You think this is funny?”
“No,” I said, although my face was betraying me. “I think it’s familiar.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“You did this.”
“I was asleep.”
“That’s exactly what you’d say.”
I looked at her car again.
There were paint trays near the front tires. Two rollers had been left on the pavement. A half-empty bucket sat near the passenger door.
Something about that bothered me.
The person who had painted my car had taken everything with them.
No rollers.
No buckets.
Nothing.
I glanced toward my front door.
Then I remembered the security cameras.
My amusement disappeared.
“Wait.”
Denise crossed her arms.
“What?”
“I installed cameras after my car was painted.”
Her expression changed.
Only slightly.
But I saw it.
I turned and walked back inside.
She followed me without being invited.
“Pull it up,” she demanded.
“I am.”
My hands shook as I opened the security app on my phone.
For days, those cameras had shown me nothing more exciting than delivery drivers, squirrels, and one neighborhood cat that seemed determined to inspect my porch every morning.
Now I scrolled backward through the previous night.
Denise stood so close that I could hear her breathing.
“Go faster.”
“I’m trying.”
At 2:14 a.m., movement appeared near the edge of the screen.
I stopped.
A pickup truck rolled slowly into view.
Denise leaned closer.
“Who is that?”
“I don’t know.”
The truck stopped in front of her house.
A man climbed out.
Then another.
They opened the truck bed and started unloading buckets.
Denise went completely still.
One of the men walked directly toward her driveway.
The other followed with two rollers.
I looked at Denise.
Her face had gone pale.
“You know them.”
“No.”
“You do.”
“I said I don’t.”
The men began painting her car.
They worked fast.
Not carefully, but efficiently.
One took the driver’s side while the other handled the passenger side. They coated the windows first, then the doors, hood, and trunk.
Denise stared at my phone.
“This is insane.”
I almost agreed.
Then something happened that neither of us expected.
A third person stepped out of the truck.
It was a woman.
She stood under a streetlight for several seconds before walking toward the driveway.
Denise made a strange choking sound.
“Oh my God.”
I looked at her.
“Who is she?”
Denise did not answer.
On the screen, the woman held up her phone and recorded the two men painting the car.
Then she walked directly toward my house.
My stomach tightened.
“Why is she coming over here?”
Denise backed away from me.
I kept watching.
The woman stopped at the edge of my driveway.
Then she pointed toward my damaged car.
One of the men came over and examined it.
They spoke for a moment.
There was no sound on the footage, but their body language was clear.
The woman looked furious.
